Posh Mum (1)

I had never really thought of my friend Pat as 'posh', but his mother certainly was. Her voice had the beautiful lilt of the refined southern Irish. Her manners were impeccable. She looked the part too with short, very dark, well cut hair, a slim but shapely figure, elegant clothes and a regal bearing. You felt you had to be on your best behaviour in her presence. At fifteen I fancied her desperately despite her being an 'older woman' of around forty.

When she opened the door to me that morning however, she looked just a little flustered. 'Hello,' she said, adjusting her hair, 'I'm afraid Pat's out with the cycling club at tne moment and won't be back until this evening. But please do come in and have a drink.' It was a warm day and quite a long walk to Pat's house, so I stepped inside and followed her to the kitchen, her hips swaying in a tight, black, knee-length skirt with a short slit up the back. She was wearing a single row of pearls and a rust coloured v-neck sweater and I noticed her legs and feet were bare. She poured me a glass of lemonade and lent against the refrigerator. There was something different about her today, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Her face was a bit flushed. But God, she was gorgeous. She leaned or rather swayed forward and I got a view down her cleavage, she wasn't wearing a bra. I could feel my knob responding. She giggled uncharacteristically and walked out of the room. When she returned shortly she had something screwed up in her hand. 'They were getting uncomfortable' she said and dropped her cream silk knickers on the table. There was an unmistakable damp patch on them. 'Are you getting uncomfortable?' she asked. 'Er, no, why?' I replied, lying.

'Let's go in the lounge' she said, composing herself, 'We'll both be more comfortable there.' I followed her again, lemonade shaking in my hand and we sat down in opposite facing armchairs. Her bra lay in a tangled heap on the floor. 'Actually you interrupted me when you called' she said. Her skirt had ridden up her smooth bare thighs.

'Oh, I'm sorry; what were you doing?' 'I was diddling' she said, stretching herself upright in her chair.

'Diddling?' I queried. 'Yes, diddling. You know wanking for girls.'

I choked on my lemonade and it overflowed onto the carpet. 'Don't worry about that' she responded in an agitated tone. 'Bill and I have been married twenty years, but he still rogers me every night.'

(So would I, I thought) 'But he's away on business all this week. So I have to...well, please myself.' I couldn't believe I was hearing this.

She hitched her skirt up above her hips. I'd never seen a woman's genitals before, but I knew instinctively that this was something very special. Although she still had her legs together I could see the bud of her clitoris poking out amid her neatly trimmed black curls. But this was only the 'tip of the iceberg'. When she opened her legs I could see it was the size of a shiny pink acorn, sitting snugly in its cup at the apex of her exquisite heart shaped cunt. My jaw dropped. She smiled. 'Nice isn't it?'. She paused for a few seconds to allow me to take in the view.

'This is a wonderful piece of anatomy,' she said 'But it requires constant attention and regular maintenance.' She touched it cautiously with the tip of her finger. 'Oh, it's got too dry' she said, and pulled up her sweater. Her breasts were high and well shaped, conical, tapering to claret, pencil eraser nipples. She took one breast in each hand and massaged them, working up towards the nipples, where she stayed and played awhile. She smiled at me, shutting her eyes occasionally as the pleasure overtook her. I could soon detect the juices running down her legs. She brushed some up and returned to her clit, running her fingertip around it and occasionally flicking it. She started to moan. My knob was fit to burst. Then, as if in a trance, she seized her left nipple between the finger and thumb of one hand, and her clit with the other, working them both feverishly, until she convulsed into orgasm.

She looked up, panting hard, 'I just had to finish that' she aid. 'Now its your turn.' 'What,' I asked.

'Will you please wank yourself off for me' she asked politely. I was certainly ready for it, but I'd never masturbated publicly before. I hesitated, then dropped my trousers; my penis was vertical against my stomach, its head almost purple, my balls so tight they ached. 'Well go on' she said. I took the shaft and slid my hand slowly up and down. I could hardly bear to touch my helmet it was throbbing so much and I knew it wouldn't take much to send me over the edge.

'At least look as if youre enjoying it' she said 'Come on. Pull it. I want to see you spray for me.' I pulled harder, sliding my hand over the edge of my helmet and back again. Oh yes, I wanted to spurt. I wanted to spurt all over her tits. She grinned, and as if reading my mind knelt in front of me on the carpet. 'Spray on me please, on my titties,' she said, 'be a good boy'. How could I refuse? I ejaculated in buckets all over her breasts, leaving myself relieved and breathless. She sat up. She slipped her sweater over her head and sitting there in just her pearls and skirt started to knead my cream into her tits, lingering again at her succulent nipples. She sucked her sticky fingers clean.

'I do hope you'll continue to come round here,' she said 'Especially when Pat's out.'